


every voice is hangin' from the silence

by ohfreckle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Anal Sex, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-08 22:53:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6878149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohfreckle/pseuds/ohfreckle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur feels like maybe he's overreacting, as if waking up fake-married in a bridal gown is nothing out of the ordinary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	every voice is hangin' from the silence

**Author's Note:**

> A million years ago I promised a married in Vegas fic to a whole bunch of people on twitter. 
> 
> It took me such an embarrassingly long time to finish this, I'm not even sure if anyone even remembers, but here it is. I still love these two guys so much and I will never tire of them, I just couldn't let this go unfinished.

 

Vegas isn't Mombasa.

Eames seems to be completely unfazed by this fact and the way he sticks out like a sore thumb between the somber looking men seated around the table. His companions are dressed in dark suits, some more, some less fitting, but all of them expensive and fashionable.

Arthur settles back against the wall, content to watch for now. With his bright purple and green paisley shirt Eames looks like a tourist, somebody one would expect siting in the gambling hall outside and feeding his meagre dollars into a slot machine. He looks almost painfully out of place in the elegant private room reserved for professional players only, and judging by the looks the others slant his way they definitely think that he doesn't belong here.

The stack of chips in front of Eames is modest compared to those of the other players, and it seems to be dwindling by the minute. If Arthur didn't know him so well he'd almost fall for the desperate look on his face. But he _does_ know him and once you know what to look for it's easy to tell.

Arthur can't help but smile at the sly look in Eames's eyes. This Eames here is a predator lulling his prey before he goes for the kill. By the end of the night everyone but Eames will walk away with barely enough cash to tip the staff and they won't even know what hit them.

Maybe Arthur can help speeding things along a bit. He hasn't seen Eames in three weeks and he has plans for the evening that promise a little more fun than poker.

Arthur pushes away from the wall and wanders into the room, coming to stand behind Eames. "Hello Eames," he greets quietly, sliding his arms around Eames's shoulders. He rubs his clean shaven cheek against Eames's stubbled one. "Are you having fun?"

Eames knows Arthur's step like his own, just as Arthur knows Eames's. Arthur is sure he noticed him minutes ago, most likely the very second he stepped into the room, so he's not surprised when Eames doesn't even bat an eye at his touch.

"I'm just starting to, darling," Eames says. He pulls Arthur into his lap with a deft move that involves an insufferable amount of leering and a smacking kiss right on Arthur's mouth, all without even setting his cards down. Arthur smiles, trying for sweet and innocent, and settles against Eames with his arms around Eames's neck. Their audience looks rather uncomfortable at their display and Eames winks at them, suddenly rather smug.

"Gentlemen, I think luck has just returned to me."

:::

Arthur wakes to darkness and a dull pain, like he took a hit to the head. Somewhere next to him pulses a metallic sound he can't quite place.

He lies very still, keeps his eyes closed and tries to assess his situation. He's been hit and judging by the numbness of his limbs also restrained. Arthur breathes shallowly, trying not to alert his captors. When he tightens his muscles he finds that– strangely enough– his bindings are loose, almost non-existent.

Somewhere outside he can hear the distinct sounds of a hotel coming to life. Arthur doesn’t remember checking into a hotel room, but he also doesn’t remember being brought into one by his captors. The last he remembers is a bunch of poker players slinking away quickly, too embarrassed at losing like beginners to pose a threat.

That's it, then. It wouldn't be the first time a sore loser comes back for his money.

Fuck, his head hurts. Arthur carefully examines the pain. He doesn’t seem to be hurt, only an insistent throbbing that almost splits his skull. Drugs then.

_Fuck_

The strange metallic sound is louder now, almost as if it’s coming closer. Arthur almost jumps out of his skin when something touches his shoulder. He automatically makes a grab for it and the relief that floods him at being able to move his hands leaves him dizzy and with his heart pounding.

For a moment he stares at the phone in his hand, dumbfounded. It must have moved with the vibrations and fallen off whatever surface it lay on.

The screen flashes ’Ariadne’ at him in obscenely bright letters. He swipes the screen, suddenly a lot less concerned with his safety, because no self-respecting criminal would leave him with his fucking _phone_. He’s much more alarmed now why Ariadne would call him at— he squints at the screen and winces— 4.17 in the morning. It better be good, because he’s in no shape right now to deal with boyfriend troubles.

" _You asshole,_ " a voice that distantly reminds him of Ariadne screeches at him.

"Uh. Hi?" Not exactly sharp, but it's _4.18 in the morning_ and he is nursing what he now begins to recognize as the Allmother of Hangovers.

_"How could you do this to me?"_ Impossibly, Ariadne’s voice gets even louder, and even if this isn’t a video call he can practically feel the accusing finger she's stabbing at him. Hard.

"I mean, I knew it would happen eventually," she continues, finally taking mercy on him and lowering her voice to a level that doesn't immediately threaten his hearing. "And you’re so beautiful, really, you look gorgeous. And Eames, too. But I wish I could have been there."

"Uh, Ariadne?" Damn, Arthur really needs to work on his volubility.

"Omigod, I’m interrupting something, aren’t I," Ariadne squeals, racking up the volume again, completely unperturbed that maybe this will be the last time Arthur will be able to hear her.

"Don't let me stop you."

And now she sounds downright lecherous. One could argue that she spends too much time with Eames, but the frightening truth is that Ariadne doesn't need any help in that regard and can make even Eames look like an innocent altar boy.

"Congrats and all," she says, her voice dripping with sweetness. "Please do send more pics, and I guess I’ll see you next week."

Arthur feels a mild case of whiplash at her change of course.

Replaying the rather one-sided conversation in his head, a not so slight case of panic creeps up on him. Eames and him looking gorgeous is nothing out of the ordinary, and that is _definitely_ Eames snoring softly next to him, but it’s also no reason for excited calls at this ungodly hour.

Arthur almost dreads pulling up his latest text. No matter how much he loves Eames, Arthur will _end_ him if he forwarded Ariadne pictures of them being naked or worse, having sex. Those are personal.

Actually, it's worse. So much worse.

Eames and himself are smiling happily on the little screen. They are fully clothed, thank God, but— Arthur fumbles frantically for the bedside lamp and finally gets a good look at himself.

Cream colored pleated silk, definitely not what he thought to be a tangled 400-thread count sheet, is clinging to his hips and skillfully draped over his chest.

It's a fucking wedding dress.

Vera Wang, his brain supplies helpfully. Arthur isn't exactly sure how he knows this, but the feel and clean cut of it are telling him he's probably right. It's only a very small comfort that even drunk off his ass he still knows how to dress.

"Eames," Arthur bleats and whacks him in the chest. "Eames! Why am I wearing a wedding dress?"

He hates the way he sounds slightly hysterical, hates it with everything he’s got, but fuck. He looks like a pompous duchess, Arthur has the right to a fully blown nervous breakdown and he's going to have it. Later. As soon as he feels better.

Arthur very carefully looks down the length of his body. He’d almost forgotten about the pounding in his head, but it's coming back full force now. He's not sure what's worse, his hangover or the dress that—goddammit—is still clinging to him like a second skin.

Arthur turns his head resignedly. There isn't a single explanation he can imagine that will let him look good. Figuratively speaking, because he actually looks more than good in the picture on his phone.

Eames is smiling at him. He's decidedly not hungover and disgustingly alert.

"Good morning, darling." Eames even sounds fresh and awake. Arthur is so getting a divorce.

"That doesn't answer my question," Arthur barks. He's not in the mood for Eames's bullshit.

"Ah, of course, and your question was?"

"Why am I wearing a designer wedding dress?"

Arthur enunciates slowly and carefully, and tries not to shout like he desperately wants to. He still has some dignity left.

Arthur watches with growing dread as Eames is digging between the pillows until there's some rustling and a victorious _ha!_.

Arthur gets up because he can't lie down for a second longer. He gingerly takes the proffered sheet of paper and sits down at the small vanity next to the bed. The paper is crumpled from where it was stuck between the sheets. Arthur smoothes out the creases very carefully and blinks several times at it, hopes that he's still drunk or maybe dreaming, but the writing won't change.

_Full name Party A: Darling, Arthur._

_Surname after marriage: Darling._

_Full name Party B: Asherton, Eames._

_Surname after marriage: Darling._

Arthur hears the sheets rustle behind him, but he can’t stop looking at the innocuous piece of paper. Eames comes up behind him and winds his arms around Arthur's middle. He places a soft kiss on Arthur's neck that makes Arthur shiver and hooks his chin over Arthur’s shoulder.

"For two thousand dollars the clerk pretended to believe that of course a woman can bear Arthur as her name. The good reverend though needed a little more convincing. I do believe it was your marvelous arse that did the trick."

Eames huffs a laugh and tightens his arms, pressing his thighs against Arthur’s lower back until Arthur feels like he's completely enveloped by him. It's almost scary how good it feels. Arthur leans back into Eames a bit harder and sighs.

"It’s still not real."

It’s almost funny that Arthur realizes it just now. The receipt from Renta Tux next to his watch and an impressive pile of cash reminds him that they’re in Las Vegas.

No same sex marriages.

Arthur wishes he could blame this all on Eames, that it's just another joke, but his own signature sits sharp and clear at the base of the receipt. He suddenly remembers insisting on ’something classy, and definitely no frills’.

"It could be. At home, in London."

Hearing it from Eames, pressed into the skin of his neck with soft little kisses, it doesn't seem so frightening.

Arthur's vibrating phone saves him from examining that thought too closely. And if he practically scrambles to take the call— well, everybody gets to be a coward sometimes. Apparently today it's his turn.

"Arthur," Saito greets him, his voice slightly tinny. "I do believe congratulations are in order."

"Thank you, Saito," Arthur says politely, because what else can he say.

His stomach drops at the thought of who else might have gotten that damn message. Just thinking about the well-meant but horrifyingly awkward marriage counsel— _it's perfectly ok if one of you can’t… you know, sex isn't everything_ —Dom will inflict on him makes something inside of him shrivel and curl up protectively.

"I would have been very honored to attend, but I do understand the need for privacy in such matters," Saito's voice comes from the speaker, followed by a quite meaningful pause that means no, he doesn't understand at all. Nobody overlooks Saito.

"Oh, no, no, we didn't actually invite anyone. It was a… ah, very spontaneous decision."

Arthur's voice hitches slightly at the feeling of Eames draping his bulk all over him. God, the heat of Eames's naked body feels amazing against his skin in the backless gown. Arthur's cock stirs at the slight scratch of chest hair against his naked back, the hot press of skin on skin followed by a broad lick along the length of his spine, over his shoulder, right up to his neck.

"You looked marvelous on your knees with all that silk draped all over your arse," Eames whispers into his ear. "All wet and open, begging for my cock. Again," a slow sucking kiss to his shoulder, “and again and _again_.”

Eames’s voice is low, filthy, rasping over Arthur's skin just like his stubble scrapes over the fresh mark on his shoulder. It goes straight to Arthur’s cock, leaves him breathless and wanting within just a few seconds.

It's also completely, terribly inappropriate with Saito on the line.

Arthur tries to listen, but he's back to monosyllabic answers in no time. Images of the previous night come rushing back to him, of himself shamelessly sliding his legs apart, promising to be so very good if only he can please have Eames’s cock back inside again.

“You must come visit soon,” Saito says. “So we can celebrate your nuptials properly.”

Arthur doesn’t answer. He’s physically unable because he’s too busy cataloguing the aches in his body, the soreness in his ass and the stickiness between his legs he hadn't noticed while he was busy having a near nervous breakdown.

It says a lot about just how much of a gentleman Saito is that he ends the call with a polite cough before Arthur can embarrass himself further.

He carelessly drops the phone in the general direction of the table and twists in Eames’s arms, and already Eames is there to meet him, tongue pushing between Arthur’s lips and stroking deep and Arthur's gut tightens at the way Eames _takes_ him with just a simple kiss.

It’s one of the hottest things he has ever felt, being able to let go and giving the reins to someone he completely trusts. Shouldn't trust, maybe, but Arthur has long since accepted that Eames is his exception to everything.

"God, Eames." Arthur hums his pleasure, breaking the kiss only when air becomes an absolute necessity.

He feels exhausted, horny and also a lot like crying. Arthur guesses this is how most brides feel right after their wedding. Eames shoulder looks enticing and strong, so he lets his forehead drop onto it and sighs.

"Eames, what does it say about me that not even Saito bats an eyelash at the idea of me wearing approximately half a mile of cream colored silk to my own very gay non-wedding?"

"Saito is quite the extraordinary gentleman. I'd wager it means that he’s a man with excellent taste," Eames chuckles and drops a kiss onto Arthur's hair.

It's not flattery if it's true, and if Arthur hadn't already used up his freak-out quota for the day he would maybe fret over how Eames always knows just what he needs. Instead he straightens and twists his arms loosely around Eames's neck.

Eames is smiling at him, a happy smile that lights up his whole face, eyes crinkling at the corners and his full lips stretched into something positively wicked. He looks at Arthur, fond, in that oh-Arthur way he has, that Arthur feels like maybe he's overreacting, as if waking up fake-married in a bridal gown is nothing out of the ordinary.

Considering what they do for a living, it actually doesn't rank that high on his weird-shit-that-happened list. Hell, it doesn't even make page one.

Arthur shivers when Eames gathers up his skirt and strokes his broad warm hands over the back of his thighs, his warm, dry skin rasping against the fine hair there, up to his ass where he palms Arthur's cheeks and squeezes. Arthur can't hold back a gasp at the small hurt that tingles up his spine, reminding him just how sore and well-used he feels.

"Shame I barely remember any of it," he whispers. It's only half a lie. His body remembers, but the details are still kind of hazy. "Have I been good?"

"You were fantastic, love, begging for my cock until you couldn't help but cry," Eames rasps.

"Seems like I need a reminder." Arthur grinds slowly against Eames, lets the arousal build until it sits heavily in his gut like a slow, simmering burn.

"Whatever you're asking for, darling."

Arthur makes a soft sound of protest when Eames lets go of him, his hands skimming over Arthur’s waist up to his chest. Eames curls a finger over the top of the bodice and tugs, scraping a nail over Arthur's nipple, just this side of painful. Arthur arches into it, shivering.

"Again."

"Greedy," Eames murmurs. His hands are big, his fingers rough against Arthur's nipple and Arthur pushes into it, seeking more.

"Can’t help it. You’re… fuck, Eames." He kisses Eames, lets him feel that yes, he’s greedy, yes, he wants this, all of it.

"Spread your legs then, love." Eames breaks the kiss and turns Arthur around, pushing him down so his chest is flat against the table, his hand a hot and heavy weight between Arthur’s shoulder blades.

Arthur arches back into it, just to feel Eames push a little harder. He settles with his cheek resting on his folded arms and watches Eames cross the short distance to the bed to retrieve the lube, trails of black ink licking over his chest and arms, his fat cock heavy between his thighs, the tip already slick and wet. Arthur’s mouth goes dry with the sudden throb of want that surges through him and he shifts his legs even wider because he can’t wait a second longer.

"Get in me," he rasps out, impatient. He’s desperate and he lets it roughen his voice. "Right the fuck now! I’m ready."

"I live to please, love, but I don’t think so." Eames laughs. "Not yet."

Arthur can’t see him where he’s coming to stand behind him, but he hears the smugness in his voice, teasing. Eames is a bastard, but Arthur still wants him and so he just whines deep in his throat and gathers his skirts (no time to think about _that_ now) and pushes back against Eames.

For one glorious moment the thick ridge of Eames’s cock is riding Arthur’s cleft, wet and hot and god, so heavy. The weight of it takes Arthur’s breath away, sends heat zinging up his spine, hot and urgent. His cock pulses out thick drops of precome, soaking into the soft folds of silk nestling around him. Arthur chases the sensation, hips shifting, just a little more…

And then that weight is gone, the sudden loss ripping a low moan from Arthur’s chest. Eames stills him with broad palms cupping his ass, thumbing him open, his breath going ragged. Arthur knows he’s looking, feels his neck go hot and prickling with how he must look, his hole already fucked open and still a bit wet.

Arthur expects the heft of Eames’s cock, but not the gust of warm air against his hole. He distantly registers the sound of Eames’s knees hitting the floor, but he barely hears it over the sudden rush of his own blood as Eames licks him from balls to ass, a long, filthy swathe of his tongue that leaves Arthur weak in the knees and shaking.

"Fuck, Eames, do that again," Arthur rasps, his whole body flaring bright with excitement.

"Do what again? A little more specificity, if you please." Eames pulls Arthur’s cock back between his legs and suckles at the tip, lips and tongue soft, barely there. "This?"

Eames’s exhale is damp and soft against Arthur’s balls, his pointed tongue licking along the seam before he pulls first one, then the other into his mouth, sucking lightly before he pulls off with a wet sound. "Or maybe this?"

"Yes," Arthur moans. "Oh God, yes." He bites his lip as soon as it’s out. It feels amazing, but it’s not what he’s craving.

"No."

"No? Tell me then."

"Eat me out." Arthur takes a shuddering breath, feels his face go hot with a fresh spike of arousal. Just saying it loud makes his body clench with anticipation. "Please."

"With pleasure, darling." Eames pulls him wide, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin between Arthur’s cheeks. "I’m going to eat you out, until there’s not a single drop of me left inside of you."

Hot little gusts of breath feather over Arthur’s hole and he instinctively moves back into it, begging with his body and a quiet sound he doesn’t even recognize as his own. His reward is the barest flicker of Eames’s tongue, then a firmer lick, rasping over his asshole, again and again, licking him open until Arthur feels his hole go soft and loose, letting Eames in.

"Mmmh, just like that." Eames’s lips seal over his hole, kissing him hard before he pulls back with a smacking sound. It’s filthy and obscene. Arthur loves it.

"I love sucking you open, the sounds you make. Come on, darling, let me hear you."

Eames says it as if Arthur’s got a choice, as if he could hold back the moans spilling out of him even if he wanted to. A band of fire seems to curl deep inside of him, from his asshole to his gut, winding tighter every time Eames laves over his hole in hard, wide stripes, burning along his every nerve each time Eames’s tongue licks into him, curling and flexing, fucking him open for Eames’s cock.

Arthur stutters out another moan as he pushes back to meet Eames’s mouth and Eames rewards him with another hard, sucking kiss right over his hole. The frisson of need that shoots up Arthur’s spine nearly blinds him and he fumbles back, desperate and clumsy, pulls himself open with a hand on one ass cheek so Eames can press even closer.

"Do that again," Arthur exhales shakily. "Oh god, oh fuck, please…" He’s not above begging, not with that mouth Eames has on him.

"You just can’t help it, can you," Eames says softly. He presses a soft kiss against Arthur’s fingertips where he’s holding himself open, and then there’s a firmer press against Arthur’s hole: Eames’s nose, followed by the rough scratch of stubble over sensitive skin.

An image of Eames rubbing his face all over his ass flares bright in Arthur’s mind and he chokes out something that might be a string of _pleasepleaseplease_ , but he isn’t sure. Everything feels too tight, like his own skin is one size too small to contain the pleasure that’s crashing over him. He’s going to come, Arthur realizes, like this, while Eames eats him open with lewd, sucking kisses.

"Gonna… Eames, please," Arthur gasps wetly. He starts to struggle, pushing himself onto his elbows for leverage, god, anything, just to get Eames going and not keep him like this, strung out on the very edge of shattering apart.

"So eager," Eames rasps, the barest brush of lips and stubble as Eames whispers filthy promises into the little furl of skin. "Showing off that pretty arsehole, all bare and pink and sopping wet."

Heat rises sharply in Arthur’s belly, winding him even tighter, even hotter. He squirms with pleasure as Eames drags two thick fingers through his cleft and dips into him, Arthur’s breath punching out of him with the slow drag of Eames’s knuckles against his sore rim, his cock spitting out drops of hot slick with every push inside.

Arthur's never had sex like this, that leaves him raw, flayed open.

"Fuck me," he grits out. It’s all he can think, all he can say, everything else lost in the hot squeeze of anticipation in his belly when Eames finally rises and slides his cock into Arthur’s cleft, the blunt flare of the head kissing up against his hole before he fucks in.

Eames isn’t gentle and Arthur doesn’t want him to be. He wants to feel this, the sharp burn of being pressed open by the wide head, the obscene stretch of his rim around Eames’s girth: too much, too wide, god, _yes_ , just like that.

Arthur sucks in a deep breath and relaxes himself against the stretch of it, rolls his hips into the rut of Eames’s cock inside of him.

"Move already."

Eames doesn’t have to be told twice and he’s done with teasing.

He growls low in his throat and pulls out, keeps Arthur stretched around the wide ridge of the head for long seconds before he goes back in, all the way, snug and deep. Arthur pushes back, chasing the raw, hot burn Eames is pounding into him with long, deep thrusts. He’s shaking with the need to come, the rough pleasure of being fucked, but it’s not enough, he can’t get Eames deep enough.

Eames is close as well, his fingers digging into Arthur’s hips deep and hard, a rough exhale exploding from his lips when Arthur begs him to go harder, deeper, please, _deeper_.

A groan slips out of Arthur when Eames gives him exactly that, widening his stance so he can tilt his hips forward, fucking up into Arthur rather than into him, his cock sinking in that little bit deeper with every powerful thrust.

Heat is pouring into Arthur’s gut, his hole spasming every time Eames’s cock is dragging at the perfect angle inside of him.

"Arthur, come on…" Eames voice is rough, heaving with exertion. He lets go of Arthur’s hip, curling one hand loosely around Arthur’s cock, gathering the wetness there before he trails it higher, pressing the heel of it to Arthur’s belly, right where his cock drags over Arthur’s insides so fucking good.

Arthur is burning up, can feel his orgasm coiling white and hot, rolling through his gut and pulling tight in his insides, deep and wild. He comes with a soundless gasp, shuddering and seizing around Eames’s cock, his ass still pulsing when Eames groans, his hips stuttering up between Arthur’s legs, cursing as he comes inside him.

:::

Eames fits right in, looking for all the world like he belongs here. Just another bored rich man, seeking the thrill of an illegal backroom blackjack game.

He’s taken off his jacket and Arthur lets his eyes linger, admires the perfect fit of his waistcoat. He’s wearing Brioni today, charcoal pinstripe stretching over a tightly fitted shirt in gunmetal grey. Arthur isn’t sure what he wants to do more, smooth his hands over the luxurious fabric or the take the whole thing off of Eames.

He’s going to do neither. They have a plane to catch and they’re already late.

Stepping next to Eames Arthur keeps a respectful distance, just close enough that he can half-whisper loud enough for everyone to hear. "I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but there’s a situation that needs your immediate attention."

Eames’s eyes flick up to him, mildly curious since Arthur hasn’t used one of their emergency codes. "And what could be more important than a game of cards, hm? I’m sure it can wait for another hour."

"I’m afraid not, sir," Arthur says, adding a hint of urgency, and that gets him Eames’s attention.

"Gentlemen, I’m terribly sorry for the interruption. I’ll be right back with you." Eames’s smile is wide and easy and doesn’t reach his eyes.

He follows Arthur outside, through the official card room and across the main floor, radiating tension that quickly turns into outright worry once they step outside.

"Bloody hell, Arthur. How much time do we have?" Eames eyes are worried as he takes in their rental parked next to the curb, part of their luggage on the backseat.

No questions asked he’s ready to go. Because Arthur asks him to.

Something warm unravels in Arthur, like a knot he didn’t even know was there. He wants to kiss Eames, wants to say he’s sorry for interrupting his game, but breaking their cover outside of a casino they just tried to con isn’t a wise decision.

Arthur settles for pressing two plane tickets into Eames’s hand instead. "We have to be at the airport in an hour," he says, his voice less than steady.

Eames studies the tickets carefully for what seems to be a small eternity, turning them over in his broad hands. Arthur’s own hands are steady, his fingers drumming against his thigh simply out of habit, or that’s what he’s trying to make himself believe.

"London?"

"If that’s what you want," Arthur says, his voice just as hoarse as Eames’s.

"Shouldn’t we return that first, then," Eames asks, nodding his head at the garment bag that’s draped over the passenger seat, his generous lips spreading into a small, private smile.

And just like that they’re having a whole conversation in the middle of the street and Arthur wonders when things started to change between them, if that’s why nobody seemed to be surprised to learn about their marriage.

He narrows his eyes at Eames. "Don't make me reconsider," he says. "What good is being married to a thief if he can't even steal a wedding dress for me?"


End file.
